


History Breaker - Reader/Viktor Nikiforov

by PancakeGod



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Cheating, F/M, Ice Skating, Infidelity, Love, M/M, Risky, Romance, Secret Relationships, Viktor Nikiforov - Freeform, Viktor Nikiforov/ Reader, Yuri Katsuku/Viktor Nikiforov, Yuri on Ice - Freeform, lying, relationship, yuri katsuki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PancakeGod/pseuds/PancakeGod
Summary: When Viktor enters your life, everything is fun and games until you realise you aren't the only who adores him.





	1. Prologue

For the first few months of your college time, things had been going great in your life. Then the world decided that the best place to sit was on top your shoulders, and everything turned sour.

You’d been proudly flouncing off your care-free attitude for your first few months of college, happily drinking your way into the early hours of the morning with friends, still feeling the alcohol sliding about your body as you dragged yourself to a lecture room the next day. It was good. Easy to shake off worries, no worries to block you from sleep. Bliss.

Then exams happened. People began to disperse from your friendship/drinking group, dropping the riveting night life for early morning studying. They let youth slide off their shoulders and began the transition into exam-mode.

Aside from you.

When the time came to sit your exam, you found more sweat than words falling onto the page in front of you. Whilst staring, hoping words would rush from your pen onto the page, you came to a realisation you’d probably messed-up your future.

It was too late to do anything now. What can you do when faced with an exam question that feels like it’s written in a different language? No matter how many times you hauled your bloodshot eyes over the words, they failed to present themselves to you in a decipherable sentence.

The question was:

“Stella’s dependence on men in A Street Car Named Desire presents her as a reliable character? How far do you agree, and why?”

A few phrases from the play echoed tauntingly in your head, but you couldn’t grab one and focus on what your mind was suggesting to write. The exam time sailed by, and soon your paper was whisked out of your sight by an invigilator and thrown into a pile of other papers. She saw your paper before she picked it up. Her eye brows raised pityingly at your lack of words. Shame truly hit you then, as you hung your head, feeling two years of your life exit out the door along with the other students. You were the last to leave.

On your way out you heard the corridor was littered with phrases such as, “oh that was easy,” and “I had to ask for more paper.”

You had to make your writing a little bigger so it looked like you weren’t a total fuck up, and even that hadn’t worked.

Afterwards, most students returned to English classroom, beaming with pride, and bursting to tell the teacher how easy the essay question was. You however, slunk off straight into town, deciding to try and distract your mind from tearing itself to pieces. But not even a new pair game or a new hoodie could lift your mind from the shithole it had landed in.

In the end, you went back to your dorm and lay in bed, letting waves of disappointment roll over you.

Results day came, bad news tucked under its arm. You didn’t wince at the U Grade written on the page that stared you down. Instead, you calmly folded the paper up, and on the way out of college, tossed it into the bin.

With no good grades by your side, you ended up spending the next few years of your life scraping the bottom of barrel for jobs. You flitted around frequently between vacancies, part time work never holding much future out to you. You went from shop assistant, to waitress to janitor, then found yourself slapped with the same jobs in different settings.

The longest lasting job was the one you had in the ice skating centre, a place centred in the middle of London where various skaters would come and go. Some casual, some competitive and a few competitions were hosted there every few years. Skating was something you’d never got to grips with, but apparently, that didn’t matter. The manager flung a J-Cloth and some gloves at you and told you to get cracking.

This was your longest lasting job. You took it, balancing it out with a re-take English Literature class for. Juggling work and college meant that your drinking days soon fizzled out, replaced with bleach, dust and books.

Everyone else scooped up their old night life habits, only this time, bearing a good result on their chest.

Oddly enough, It felt nice to be grounded for a while though, to feel the earth beneath your feet again. Life was mundane, lazily trawling through each day, barely being bothered enough to reach the end of the month but that was fine. It allowed you time to gather yourself, focus and try and start from square one.

And then he showed up.

He ruined everything, but at the same time made it so much more exciting too.

The casual life you’d perfectly constructed for yourself tumbled down to the ground the second he walked into your life, skates swinging from his hand and a grin that mirrored destruction aimed directly at you.


	2. Chapter Two

When you were working at the ice skating rink on a Saturday, time was never in a rush. It would pace itself, lazily pushing the clock hands around, as well as pushing your temper to the edge. Saturdays were the worst, too. Always filled with people, busyness reaching its peak, and not coming down from its high until ten at night. And by then, you were drained of life, and nothing more than a shell of a human being.

Only this Saturday was different.

The second you’d walked in the arena, you noticed a different air had been strung around it, one that was somewhat regal. The ice seemed more cool, the lights more intense, the air more fragile. Timidly, you crept further in. Silence sucked up all the life that once lingered here. Had you missed a memo or something? Was everyone on strike? You tried to trace back to the last “group meeting” but nothing which fitted the unorthodox category had been mentioned. So, what was going on?

“What are you doing here?” your manager’s voice had chipped away the first layer of the tense atmosphere. You turned, saw him stood there. He looked angry, but you were too curious and dumbfounded to let his irritation irk you.

“What’s going on?”

“I sent you an email.” He said, dodging your question. Your eyes itched, desperate to roll. Never a straight forward answer. Plus, no one checks their email regularly unless they’re waiting to hear ‘your order has been shipped’ or are going to ‘confirm their email address so you can sign up to Netflix’.

 However, you didn’t think your boss would swallow these facts well. So you shook your head.

“No, I didn’t.

“We aren’t open. We’re booked.” He gestured to the empty skating arena. Booked by ghosts? He saw the confusion rise from your face. He elaborated. “Skaters wanting to slip in some practice before the competition next week.”

“Oh.” Was all you could say. The buzz of approaching competitions never seemed to quite catch you. You struggled to weave enthusiasm into your voice. “That’s… good.”

“Yes.” He agreed, seeming to ignore your lack of excitement. “It will be great publicity, won’t it?”

“I suppose so,” you replied, eager to duck out of this sticky conversation. You jerked your thumb over your shoulder. “Can I go?”

Your manager sighed, but nodded. “Fine. Go for it. See you next week, on time may I add. You’re actually two minutes late, but since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll let you off the hook.”

Gee, how kind.

You shot out the doors and began to charge to your parked car. Freedom was calling you, along with a chance to indulge yourself in some good books and Netflix. Free! For a whole week! Heaven couldn’t have come in anymore perfect form for you.

Dreamily, you began to swoon your way to where your car was parked. Your head was clogged up with ideas of relaxation, so you didn’t see the big black car shoved just a little too close in front your mini.

You did realise when you began to reverse and something whacked the back of your car, making your figure lurch forward. Oops.

The impact shook you, snapping you out of your dazed state. You craned yourself around, noticing the big car from before was just a little too far over the right, a little too skewed. You’d barged straight into it, causing a dent in the paintwork. A big dent. We’re talking mountain crevice dents.

Your head snapped back to the front. Your eyes couldn’t bear to acknowledge what an idiot up you were.

“Shit.” You hissed. You went into internal turmoil. What should you do? Get out the car? Leave a note? Drive away into the sunset and move to Japan? The last idea appealed to you most, but it was the least likely to happen. You turned, looking at the parked car next to you. It wasn’t a cheap one.

Undoubtedly, this car belonged to a skater. The foreign number plate along with the exotic aura fanning off the exterior told you so. Great. First slice of freedom since god knows when, and you’d already wrecked it.

You looked to the back of your car again, wondering if the damage will have healed itself in the past five seconds – but a pair of light blue eyes locked with yours. And a cheery grin.

“Hello!” a thick, muffled Russian accent pushed its way through the car windows. A man waved at you.

Your jaw swung open, but fear managed to force it shut again. Oh god. No escape now. You ignored the idea forming your head that involved reversing and running this person over, and got out of the car. Sickness formed a pit in your stomach as you scooted round to the back. You braced yourself for the lashing of your life.

Yet for some reason, he wasn’t interested in the destructor of his car. The person was looking at his car, and then back to your car and then back to his car. He wasn’t furious though. He seemed to pluck amusement from the whole ordeal. “Is this your car?” he asked, his accent still thick but much more clearer now out of the car.

“Uh… yes,” you said. Shame tutted as it marched round your whole body. The dent looked worse in unforgiving daylight. “I’m sorry, but… your car was too close to mine - -“

“Oh no,” he cut over you, unapologetically. “No, no. I mean, yes, my car was too close. I am sorry about that. I hope your car isn’t too damaged. I was looking,” - he gestured to your mini - “to see if anything had happened to your car. Thankfully, nothing had.”

Sarcasm was probably as foreign to him as his car was to you. He genuinely seemed willing to breeze over the issue. Envy invaded you, muttering jealously about his carefree attitude, but you shoved the feeling away. Instead, you decided to act like a human being instead of a human only capable of staring with their gob swinging open. “Um, I’m _____, anyway.”

He looked at you. Surprise seemed to ride over his joy for a second, but then he smiled again. His teeth were nice. No wonder he smiled a lot. “Viktor,” he announced proudly. “Viktor Nikiforov.”

Viktor Niki-Thingy (what did he say his last name was? It was words that cart-wheeled over your head) took your hand and shook it. His hands were slender, but strong, as though they had muscles worked into them. After you’d pulled your hand away, you realised how inferior your hand was to his. Did finger exercise exist? You had to look this up.

“Anyway, Viktor,” you said, secretly praying his last name would never work its way into this conversation. “I’m just about to go home, so… do you mind… your car? Can you move it, please?"

Netflix remained loyal, still yearning for you despite what had disaster had just unfurled. Viktor nodded, but a grin still stood proudly. His cheeks must feel like they were burning. “Ah, yes. Understandable, understandable. I’ll move it.”

You smiled, and turned away, but his voice whipped you right back around.

“But still,” he added. “I would like to apologise properly. I mean, you must’ve been panicked when you realised you hit my car. Maybe we could - -“

Oh boy. Here it comes. You winced, his charms suddenly rebounding off you. He’d probably suggest something like coffee in a shop, date at the cinema or the classic let’s-go ice-skating-together-under-the-moonlight-and-then-go-and-become -great-skaters-together. You braced yourself, already pre-preparing a gentle decline.

“Maybe we could discuss your insurance together? Your car headlight is actually broken, I’ve just noticed. I can pay you for it, no need to get lawyers involved - -“

What? Your excuse deflated, and you were left stunned. You didn’t want to be swooned into his exotic life, but you didn’t want to pour over figures with him either. Taking your silence, as a chance to neatly close the conversation, Viktor waved at you and began to walk away, waving. “ - - so I’ll see you there?”

His voice had been drowned out by your thoughts. “Where?” you asked, bewilderment sailing through the air.

“Here.” He said. Then he stopped walking away. “Oh wait, let me move my car.”

You watched as he dived into the black car, and the engine began to hum. Insurance? You would’ve protested, but Viktor Niki-For-Of seemed to be ready to dish money out for you, for… emotional stress? You didn’t know what loophole this incident would fit through.

What you did know was that this man surely had a few coins tucked in those tight pants of his, and you weren’t going to decline a potential free £1000.00

 

 

“I’m not a gold-digger,” you chanted to yourself as you got into your car. “I’m not a gold-digger.”


End file.
